The Spymaster's Lady

was like.

Almost time…almost…The silk cord was damp in her hands. I will not hurt you, she promised silently. I will take immense care.

“I was wrong. You can be blatant.” Grey’s touch came to her thigh. He would push her away in a moment, or pull her to him. She was not sure which. But she knew he could stand no more. “What happened to that finesse of yours?”

Now. It had to be now. I do not want to do this. I do not want to do this at all.

She whispered, “I am all finesse.”

One so-slight pull on the silken cord between her hands. She crossed her arms and made a loop of it and leaned forward. She kissed him softly, just under the ear. With the kiss, she flipped the cord over his head and circled his neck. She snapped it closed and jerked hard, cutting off his air.

Six

HIS LUNGS CONVULSED. A DEMON WEIGHT CLAMPED HIS back, locked at his throat, choked him, pulled him down. He grappled at it with numb hands. He couldn’t…

He threw himself back and forth, trying to beat off the enemy that held him. Black alternated with red flashes. He twisted. Punched out with his last strength. He didn’t feel the impact when he hit.

Too late. The thought spiraled with him, down into nothingness. This was what it felt like to die.

Suddenly the intolerable pressure on his throat was gone. He sucked air. Agony swept through his chest. The world washed blood red as he kicked and pushed free. He rolled away fast, ran into a wall, and wedged his back against it. Gasping, he waited for the next attack.

It was dark when he opened his eyes. Night. That was why he didn’t hear guns and horses. The battle was over. He’d been left behind, wounded, for the human vultures that scavenged the death fields. Where were his men? They wouldn’t have left him. They’d lost then. Disorderly retreat. A rout.

Beside him, someone was choking. Maybe dying.

There was softness under him. Not dirt. He bunched up a handful. It was…cloth. The disorientation was so great it made him dizzy. Then he knew. He was in bed, not on the battlefield. In France, at Roussel’s inn.

Fighting Annique Villiers.

The death rattle beside him was Annique. He remembered now. He’d hit her. Hit her with fists that could kill a grown man. What have I done?

It was too dark to see, but he could hear her. He found the curve of a hip and ran his hands up and down her body. She was naked and she shook like she was breaking apart. Hell. Oh, hell.

He needed light. He staggered up and blundered across the room. In the hearth, the embers were alive under the ashes. He kicked, flat-footed, at the logs till orange showed through. The candle was on the mantelpiece. He held it to the ember, snarling with impatience, for the long second it took the wick to catch fire.

She was on the mattress, bent double, clutching her stomach.

He slapped the candle onto the spike of a holder. She was pale as the sheet, gasping for air. When he took hold of her, her skin was cold and clammy. He flipped the whole defensive ball of her onto her back. Eyes wide and blank and blind as a doll’s slid past him with no recognition. It scared the hell out of him.

Where did I hit you?

There was no blood on her face, no mark on her throat. Thank God for that. He’d hit her only once—he was almost sure of it. Only once. If he’d battered into those fragile little bones on her face, she’d have shattered like glass.

She was wrapped around her belly, so that must be where he’d hurt her. Her rib cage. Had he broken her ribs? He felt down her sides, probing fast, line by line. He’d feel a break in her ribs, wouldn’t he? She had thin, delicate bones with no flesh on them. He’d feel a break.

He pulled her into his lap. It took only little force to pull her arms away, a little more to unroll her enough to see what was what.

Little breasts. Pale skin. Just below her heart, surrounded by old bruises, was a red mark the size of his fist. He’d slammed her dead center in the solar plexus. No wonder she couldn’t breathe.

“Lie still. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. That’s all.” Dear God, I hope that’s all. Her diaphragm was hard as a board. She was fighting her own lungs. “Easy now. There’s plenty of air.”

“C…c…aa…”

Nothing broken on the arch of her rib cage. Nothing he could feel. “Your chest’s clamped down where I hit you. You’ll be fine in a minute.” He pressed in with the heel of his hand, pushing those locked muscles, telling them they better damn well get back to work. “It’s already getting better.”

She scooped a breath in. Coughed. Every muscle spasmed.

“I’ve got you. Easy now.” He kept up a flow of meaningless words, massaging the rock-hard diaphragm while she arched back, dragging at air with her whole body. “Everything’s fine. Steady. Steady, girl.” He sounded like he was talking to one of his brother’s high-strung mares. But it was working. She hauled in a sharp gasp and held it. Let it go. “That’s better. That’s right.” Her hand clenched tight around his. He could feel her hanging on to the certainty in his voice.

Her head fell back against him. She pulled in long, jerky sobs. Let them out. Breathing. It sounded like she’d keep at it.

“You’re going to be fine.” Unless he’d cracked one of those ribs. Unless he’d hurt her inside where it didn’t show. He pressed deep, hand by hand, across her belly, and she didn’t wince any place in particular. That had to be a good sign.

He stroked from her breasts downward, again and again, over that abused diaphragm, down the flat plane between her hips. Her muscles were tight bunches, distinct and hard under his palm. She lay in his arms with her eyes closed, twitching hard about every third breath. Her breasts quivered when her breath rasped in and out. The nipples were lighter pink than he would have expected. That’d be because her skin was so white.

He kept stroking her belly, feeling her loosen and relax, muscle by muscle. She had satin skin with not an ounce of fat under it. The hair between her legs was ebony black and curly. Luxuriant as a little sable. Looked soft there.

“No! Let me go.” She jerked away, flung herself to the far side of the bed, turned her back to him, and tucked herself tight as a hedgehog.

That was good. She wouldn’t twist up into a pretzel if she had a broken rib. “You’ve got your breath back.”

She faced the wall, taking deep breaths. “I guess we’re no longer being friendly in the dark where it doesn’t count,” he said.

No answer.

Rags of the flame-colored nightgown wrapped around her, like she lay in the middle of a shredded exotic orchid. Her hair was inky black, stark on her white skin. She hadn’t had an easy time of it lately. He could count her ribs. The shadow of old bruises marked her everywhere, a whole collection, in all stages of healing. Under the damage was a truly lovely body. Not lush, but perfectly shaped. If they’d made naked china figurines at that factory at Dresden, they’d have looked like her. Trust the French to find something this beautiful and make a spy of her.

The garrote she’d used snaked over the edge of the bed, absurdly red. That made it part of her nightgown and something he’d ordered into the room. Stupid of him.

It was twisted silk, unbreakable. An elegant and lethal weapon. If she’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

“One of us,” Doyle had called her. “One of the best.” Grey had her naked and battered and so weak she didn’t